


Things Liars Say

by ymirs



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abigail's 18 but still, F/F, Frabigail, Gen, Possible underage? idk, eventual femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymirs/pseuds/ymirs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Between the woman's overzealous approach and her thick, unruly (but admittedly well kept) curls, Abigail was finding it difficult to fathom that she wasn't being baited. Indeed, Abigail had been the lure long enough to recognize the signs of a fisher; yet something about her vulpine guest still intrigued Abigail enough to hear her out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Perception

**Author's Note:**

> Intro//Chapter 1, Perception: A basic 'fill-in-the-blanks' of Freddie’s meeting with Abigail in the Port Haven Psychiatric Facility. Mostly backstory/establishment for my version of Abigail.

  


  


  


  


A few hours of waking was all Abigail Hobbs had needed to settle in to the dull ambiance of her room and the overall monotony of the facility. The excessive floral accents throughout the stuffy room were numbing and created an illusion of purgatory. The nurses said she had been in a coma for nearly forty-eight hours, though it seemed to Abigail as though she had been awake for the entirety of her stay.

With the exception of her new psychiatrist Dr. Bloom, the nurses who checked on Abigail had all come and gone hurriedly and nervously from her room. None would answer her inquiries, however simple. One particularly pallid woman had even tripped over Abigail’s IV stand on her way out, apologizing with a forced smile and then scrambling from the room.

The nurses’ uneasy behavior had been Abigail’s first solid clue that the incident at her home had reached a worst case scenario. With every person that passed by and peeked pityingly into her door, Abigail became all the more certain that both of her parents had died. When Dr. Bloom confirmed this, what Abigail felt was largely relief. She surprised even herself with the lack of emotion she was able to muster. No matter, as the psychiatrist had likely attributed Abigail’s cold reaction to residual shock from the event. In truth, the pinches of feeling Abigail did experience had already been soothed during her short coma. She felt hardly anything.

For a petite girl suffering from heavy blood loss and cerebral hypoxia, Abigail was peculiarly alert. Doubtless Dr. Bloom had expected to meet a drowsy and disoriented teenage girl when she entered the room with half a dozen shopping bags and mixtapes, only to be met with a callous and calculating patient. In quite the same way, Abigail had expected a much more professional approach from the psychiatrist – in the past she remembered only that her doctors had been old, white-haired men in lab coats who struggled to approach adolescents confidently. Abigail was momentarily caught off guard when a dark haired woman of about Abigail’s height introduced herself, but quickly adjusted her demeanor to a more familiar one – one which she had honed in on at her father’s behest. Dr. Alana Bloom looked startlingly similar to Marissa, Abigail's girlfriend ( _possibly ex-girlfriend_ , she thought, _considering recent events_ ) back in Minnesota, and this gave her some confidence that she could easily win her over. Unfortunately, the psychiatrist was older and much more guarded than Abigail’s usual target, and the meeting turned out to be more stifled and one-sided (with Dr. Bloom doing the talking) than anything.

It was less than a half hour after Dr. Bloom’s departure that Abigail had her second visitor. A flame-haired woman with the figure and composure of a fox entered her room, wearing a carefully coordinated outfit of black and leopard print. She had put on a façade of authorization, but Abigail had been given no warning of her approach and thus concluded the woman was not truly permitted in the room. Dr. Bloom’s visit had been thoroughly (albeit quickly) disclosed to Abigail; clearly that was standard procedure for the hospital. She held the call button in her hand under the blanket firmly, in case she deemed the woman unsavory or malicious.

“Abigail? My name is Freddie,” the woman began as she approached Abigail’s bed with intent, offering a practiced smile and a gloved hand which Abigail made a point not to shake. “Do you mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?” Abigail took a mental note that Freddie had given a first-name only, and no title.

“So you’re not a doctor, a nurse, or a psychiatrist?”

Freddie looked surprised that Abigail had come so quickly to that conclusion and visibly fumbled for a reply. “I’m a journalist. I want to tell the truth – your truth.” Abigail glanced into the hallway, wondering how this woman had gotten in if not by some foul play. Freddie continued hastily, “Sometimes it may involve some deception, but know this: I will never lie to you.” Ah, so it _had_ been foul play.

“Sounds like something a liar would say.” Abigail retorted quickly, still entirely unconvinced of her visitor's intentions. Between the woman's thick, unruly (but admittedly well kept) curls and her overzealous approach, Abigail was finding it difficult to fathom that she wasn't being baited. Indeed, Abigail had been the lure long enough to recognize the signs of a fisher; yet something about her guest still intrigued her enough to hear her out.

“If you tell me what you know I can help you fill in the blanks.”

Abigail scoffed at that. Even if she did know anything (besides the death of her family) she would undoubtedly withhold the information. Absolutely nothing about Freddie's word choice gave Abigail incentive to trust her, and she wondered how profitable her 'journalism' could possibly be using these tactics.“How about you tell me what _you_ know.” Abigail could play this game too.

“Your dad was the Minnesota Shrike. Your mother wasn’t the first person your father killed. He killed 8 girls. 8 girls that looked –“

“Just like me.” Abigail's interruption had been unintentional, and her heart skipped a beat before she realized exactly what she said. She feared she had blurted out _'more than eight, actually'_   but her body relaxed as she recalled otherwise. Still, she had made a misstep. Abigail had planned to let information come to her, rather than hunt it actively. That way, she figured, it would be easier to hide what she already knew.

“Yes,” Freddie replied, attempting to suppress a smirk beneath a more sympathetic smile. Luckily the tidbit Abigail had inadvertently spilled seemed to be old news to Freddie.

Abigail posed a question to redirect the discussion. “Why do they call him the shrike?”

“It’s a bird. It impales its prey; harvests the organs to eat later." Freddie looked like she was struggling not to elaborate on the gruesome topic. "He was very sick.” At least the woman was trying to be gentle. Abigail reckoned Freddie wasn't so considerate with the majority of her subjects.

“Does that mean I’m sick too?” Abigail almost laughed at her own question. Sick or not, Abigail was fucked up. But it was up to her to conceal just how fucked up. If that meant playing the victim for some time, she would bear it.

Freddie frowned semi-sympathetically, slowly closing in on Abigail and sitting next to her on the bed. Freddie's gloved hand cupped Abigail's knee under the covers. It was the closest she had come to friendly physical contact since a stranger had wrapped a large, steady hand around her neck as blood spurted violently onto the floor. Abigail found herself craving it, and imagined for a moment how the hand would feel bare against her leg. Skin to skin. 

"You’ll be fighting that perception. Perception is the most important thing in your life right now," Freddie insisted.

The journalist was right, and Abigail did know the value of outward appearances. Hence her next move - a lie, of course - “I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“Better start caring, Abigail." Freddie had bought it. "What you remember, what you tell anyone is going to define the rest of your life. Let me help you.” 

“How did they catch him?” Abigail continued her volley of questions, pleased at how much information she had been able to extract thus far. The interrogation had essentially backfired on Freddie, and Abigail was inclined to take advantage of this.

“A man named Will Graham. Works for the FBI, but isn’t FBI. He catches insane men because he can think like them. Because he is insane.” Freddie's agenda had started to reveal itself. If she was out to expose the FBI's questionable tactics, an orphaned victim was certainly a great place to start. She was hoping for Abigail's story to garner a sympathetic audience. Abigail would not give her that, she decided.

 Will Graham must have been the one of the men at her house that day. She wondered if he was the panicked, shaky man who shot her father to death or the much calmer man who ultimately stopped her from bleeding out and rode in the ambulance with her. Or had they been the same man? Abigail honestly couldn't remember. She suddenly felt angry at how few facts she had been given up until this point. If Freddie was Abigail's only choice as a source of information, then so be it. She would _bleed_ the journalist of it.

“What do you mean 'isn’t FBI?'” 

“He didn’t get past the screening process – too unstable.” _He must've been the killer then,_ Abigail thought. Or perhaps not killer, in the eyes of the public - but the hero who saved her life? She felt herself withholding a grimace as she thought of how her father's executioner would undoubtedly be heralded. It occurred to her now that she really ought to have died that day. After all, that's what her father had wanted, and he had always known what was best for her before. 'Best' was, of course, relative. It had been 'best' that she help him pin his prey, 'best' that she not get too close to Marissa. And now, it would be 'best' for her if she didn't have to spend the rest of her life in the shadow of her father's misdeeds.

But she did, thanks to the FBI. And at that moment, as if on cue, the doorknob turned. 


	2. Folie à deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail's visit back to Minnesota reunites her with an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 'fill in the blanks' (more thorough than last time, with extra dialogue) of Marissa and Abigail's conversation in 1x03 "Potage."
> 
> Marissa is significantly re-characterized and expanded as I had trouble drawing from her one short appearance in the whole show. I hope you like her.

Everyone and everything that once comforted her about her home was now dead or gone, hollowed out.

Abigail was back in Bloomington, Minnesota. She had hoped that the experience of visiting her hometown would be cathartic and palate cleansing, but so far the taste in her mouth had only settled in further. Abigail had brushed her teeth so many times in futile attempts to rinse the tang of blood and metal from her mouth. When she tried to swallow the taste whole, it only hurt her neck where she had been carved, leaving her momentarily breathless from the strain.

As she walked briskly toward the front porch (her quick pace was much to Dr. Bloom and Will Graham's dismay; they had expected her to shy away from the crime scene, yet Abigail was the one leading them into the house as though she was their tour guide), she had pretended she was returning from her first stretch of college, perhaps for fall break. It didn't help her feel anything.

After a good half hour of traipsing solemnly though the house pursued by Dr. Bloom and Will Graham (and, so far behind them that he was nearly out of sight and mind, Dr. Hannibal Lecter), Abigail sat on the floor in front of a tower of boxes. Each was labeled 'EVIDENCE' in stern black letters so threatening that the boxes required no explicit warning not to open them. Abigail started opening them anyway. They were her things, after all. It was _all_ hers.

She started picking things at random from between tissue paper and packing peanuts while her sullen entourage watched silently. They were swarmed around her like buzzards while she slowly consumed what was left of her family's belongings. The three birds formed a hungry wake as they observed her, scavenging for any evidence they might find in her eyes as she plucked out photos, ornaments, even crafts. Abigail shuddered as she thumbed one particular trinket: a tiny pair of antlers covered in real antler velvet, doubtless harvested by her father. Attached to it was a thin red ribbon and a folded piece of paper. She opened the tag and felt a bubble in the back of her mouth as she read the inscription.

> It was in her father's exquisite handwriting.

Normally keepsakes like this would make her smile, but now all she felt was the physical urge to vomit. She sealed her lips tight and held her breath, willing herself not to hurl as she thought of the pain it would bring to her throat. After a whole minute of concentrating on keeping down what little contents were in her stomach, Abigail looked up at her company (no doubt they were puzzled by her long silence) and said something she knew she would later wish she hadn't.

"You're not gonna find any of those girls, you know."

Some time later, once her buzzards had become impatient and gone to search for any remaining evidence in the rest of the house, Dr. Bloom re-entered the room.

"Abigail, there's someone here," she announced, looking rather baffled and somewhat offended.

A raven-haired girl of exactly Abigail's stature appeared smiling in the doorway to the sitting room. "Hey, Abigail."

Everyone and everything that once comforted her about her home was now dead or gone - except one thing.

 

* * *

 

"I'm surprised they let you come here, after everything, you know," Marissa stated as they walked out onto the second-level back porch and started down the creaking wooden stairs that Abigail's father had built and installed before she was old enough to walk down them alone. She recalled how the boards used to feel solid and sturdy, and the fresh scent of sealant when he polished them a few years back. That aroma was gone. Abigail glanced down at her feet as she avoided a large nail that was protruding from one of the steps. She grasped the railing with the palm of her hand and then let go when she felt how rough it was. She imagined that if she kicked the railing hard enough, she could topple the entire thing to the ground. The idea of ruining something intrigued her - it had been too long since Abigail had control over the chaos in her life. At this point, even shoddy inanimate objects were subject to her destructive tendencies.

"Who's 'they?'"

"The FBI I guess, but honestly, if it were up to the locals, they'd probably banish you." Marissa had always been very to-the-point about things, but today she was uncommonly so. It was as if she were on a mission, and pointless chatter had no part in it. "So, uh, does that hurt?" Marissa was backing off now, after getting no reaction from her previous comment.

"Sometimes. Only when I think about it."

"Think about the epic slash in your neck or about your family being dead?" 

"Uh, both," Abigail replied, turning to Marissa and grinning a little. She had to smile sometime, and she might as well give her girlfriend some points for trying. She liked Marissa, after all. A lot of people didn't - Marissa was curt and uninterested in trifles. She had always been a little rebellious, too, and ironically enough, people had considered Abigail to be a good influence on her.

Marissa nodded and smiled back, halting their walk as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "Fair enough," she hummed softly, extending a hand towards Abigail's neck. Abigail withdrew at first, but Marissa settled her hand far above the wound and cradled her skull, running her thumb down Abigail's earlobe. Abigail shivered a little at the contact and closed her eyes. She craved Marissa's touch (or anyone's touch, really) after such a long time without it.

Behind closed eyes she found herself picturing a fountain of tight red curls. She was remembering the last person who had touched her even remotely this fondly. When she realized exactly what she was thinking, Abigail opened her eyes abruptly. She didn't want Marissa to know how deprived she was of consolation, nor that it wasn't consolation she was looking for but distraction. Body heat. And control.

Marissa let go of her head and frowned a little as she read Abigail's cold body language. They started walking again, silently, as a thick layer of leaves rustled underfoot. After what seemed like eternity, Marissa spoke loudly, in a much sharper and clearer voice than she had before. "Everybody on the block was on the news, and everyone at school. Such whores."

Abigail straightened her composure a bit and slowed her pace. "What were they saying?" She tried her best to sound indifferent but multiple syllables in her question had cracked. 

"They were crying, mostly. About how they didn't see it coming, not from a family like yours. A few of them went on the offensive though. The cat lady down the street has been attributing it all to a lack of gun control laws. Pathetic, huh?"

Abigail nodded. If that was all, she could handle it - it would be uphill from here on out, surely. Adamant as Marissa was, Abigail trusted her, yet still she felt the need to confirm her as a confidant. "Did you talk to the news?"

"No." 

Marissa had answered much too quickly (softly, too; and Abigail knew that Marissa was not one to coo unless she was cooing over Abigail). Abigail stopped walking abruptly, but Marissa did not stop with her. Abigail felt suddenly angry, for the first time since waking _truly_ hotheaded, and raised her voice to a shouting whisper.

"What the fuck, Marissa!  _Did you?_ " she demanded, nearly hissing, as she grabbed her girlfriend's wrist tightly to halt her. 

"No!" Marissa whispered back, looking down at her captive hand and then back at Abigail's eyes. Abigail realized that Marissa seemed truly shocked -- indeed, Abigail was not usually easy to provoke -- and realized she may have fucked up her façade yet again. She may as well dig deeper at this point; the damage was already done.

"Did you tell anyone anything? About us, about me?"

"Like I said, everyone who talked is a whore." Normally Abigail would have playfully mocked Marissa's suggestion that she was somehow  _not_ a whore, but she was angry and this was serious. "I'm not one to fuck and tell, figuratively speaking. My mom doesn't want me talking to you, much less the news."

"Since when do you listen to her?" Abigail masked a scowl behind a smirk when Marissa brought her mother into this. She had never quite liked Dr. Schurr, perhaps because the woman was practically a jaded caricature of her daughter. As Abigail remembered it, Marissa saw her mother a few times a week before school or, during the summer, only when she was home from vacation sprees with her boyfriend.

"Well, clearly I don't. I'm talking to you right now." Marissa smiled nervously. Abigail was suddenly aware that she was still grasping Marissa's wrist. She didn't let go -- only loosened her grip and lowered her hand to rest idly in Marissa's. She felt Marissa relax. "She literally sent me to my room and locked me in there as soon as she found out the investigators were bringing you here today. She seemed to have forgotten to bar the window, though." Marissa shrugged and took an experimental step forward, to which Abigail obliged. The two of them began walking again, hand in hand. They always bounced back quickly - even if an issue was unresolved, it was hard for them to stay angry at each other. 

"That would have been a little extreme of her."

"I'm sure she will next time, if she finds out I left the house. She's been ranting about how she 'knew there was something off about that girl' and how 'it could've been you, Marissa.' I don't buy it though, because she always liked you before, you know. Even when she found out we were seeing each other, you know, romantically. It's understandable that she curbed sleepovers, but otherwise she was approving." Marissa was right, Abigail had always been explicitly welcome in Dr. Schurr's home. Not that you could tell it was her home - Marissa practically lived there alone. Dr. Schurr worked long days and nights in an emergency room, and claimed that she was on call so much that she might as well just sleep at the hospital more often than not. Though she dare not say so to Marissa, Abigail often wondered where else the doctor spent her nights - probably at high-society parties and hotel suites with her numerous professional friends.

"It's not like that made a difference. The sleepovers, I mean." 

"To her it did. It's not like she was home at night to know if you were over or not."

Abigail couldn't imagine that her continued overnight stays had gone unnoticed by Dr. Schurr. When she left the home the next day there had always been numerous hints for anyone to see: breakfast had been made for two, empty glasses and soda cans were littered about, and Abigail's clothing was sometimes even left with Marissa's laundry. Abigail began to swim in memories of her time with Marissa: how easy it had been, how the only other place she had felt that free and peaceful was when she was hunting with her dad. That was before the girls - once it began, things had been so different, and Abigail had struggled to keep close to Marissa without making any mistakes...

And then Marissa spoke, in her usual forthright manner. "Everybody thinks you did it, you know?"

Abigail was quiet for a moment as she floated back into the present and processed the statement. "But why? And what do they think I did, exactly?"

"They say you helped your dad. That you were cutting up girls _and_ deer on all those weekend hunting trips."

 _Shit._  Why hadn't Marissa mentioned that earlier? She remembered her previous outburst and understood why Marissa had waited. Abigail fumbled for words. "It's not true. I wouldn't..."

"You don't have to convince me, Abs," Marissa said so softly she had nearly descended to a murmur. It was not a good sign when it came to her honesty.

"So you think I did it?"

Marissa shook her head mildly a few times. "I don't think you're the type. Then again, I didn't think that you would be such a pro at topping." Abigail truly beamed at that remark. She had always been particularly proud of her sexual prowess. Marissa continued, more seriously now, "...or that your father was the murder-suicide type. Although, I guess the hunting could have been a clue."

Abigail was shocked at the sudden change of tone. "Mine or his?"

"Both, now that you mention it." Marissa tried to elicit a laugh from Abigail, who was becoming more and more frustrated with the extent of Marissa's audacity. "I don't think you did it," she repeated firmly, suddenly looking fearful of Abigail, who had stopped cold and somehow seemed even more pale. Abigail had become a statue, eyes boring into Marissa, who was unsure if it was out of fury or something else.

Leaves rustled nearby and a lanky, unfamiliar person stepped out of the woods. _"_ I _do._ "

**Author's Note:**

> My first narrative-style. Not beta-ed. Be kind! :)
> 
> Was written while listening to a lovely Abigail-centric fanmix by sybllinear (8tracks.com/sibyllinear/terrified-then-powerful). That music was my main muse, for sure! Thank you! :)


End file.
